


Mirrors Don't Tell Us Who We Are

by somedingus



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Child Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, In the form of flashbacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4330497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somedingus/pseuds/somedingus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward can't help but cling to the one person who claims he can help him and he gets punished for thinking it was safe.</p><p> I'm not going to finish this anytime soon. Just not feeling it<br/>Sorry</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Edward wakes up with a start, out of breath and still recovering from small spasms. He closes his eyes, a couple of tears rolling down from the corners and making small wet spots on his pillow. Why, oh, why did he have to get nightmares now when _Jonathan Crane_ of all people, was his new cellmate after he had provoked Oswald enough to throw a punch. Jonathan Crane could get into any mind, no matter how thick the steel wall was around it. Those were just challenges to the man, nothing more, the way a 10k is a challenge to a casual runner. And since being in here, Edward's walls have worn down to the thickness of his wrist. It was the mental equivalent of leaving his doors and windows unlocked in a shady neighborhood.

He's always hated therapists, shrinks, counselors, whatever they want to be called, it wasn't just Jonathan. They always think they're the smartest person in the room (same with doctors). And those framed diplomas piss him off, like the counselor from Edward's high school. Eddie didn't need a doctorate to make people cry about their problems and their childhood. 

There was only one therapist he didn't absolutely loathe. Dr. Elena Walser, who had worked in Arkham until her sister had gotten extremely sick two months ago, or so Edward was told. She would've been a wonderful friend if she wasn't treating him and he didn't have trust issues. Elena was smarter than most of the other doctors at Arkham, much nicer too. Edward spent the whole session avoiding whatever she wanted him to talk about, but he was starting to _talk_ , which was an improvement from just insulting whoever was in the room.

* * *

 Dr. Walsler cleared her throat, clipboard and pen at the ready. "Let's start with an easy question: who did you live with as a child?"

He avoided looking directly at her. Maybe if he focused on the clock it would magically skip and hour.

"Eddie? Feeling alright?"

It didn't work. "You're much too pretty to be working in such a _dull_ place like this. You should be the kind of therapist who tells _billionaires_ that their kid is--"

She sighed, setting the clipboard on the arm of her chair. "I know you don't want to do this, but--"

"But if I talk about myself then you can figure out what's wrong with me. If you figure out what's wrong with me then we can find the root of the problem, can fix the problem, send me out of here with a certificate of sanity and work on the next crack case."

"And you don't want that?"

"If I leave, I'll spend less time with you."

"Edward..."

"Fine, fine. I'll tell you...in the form of--"

" _Edward_."

" _Kidding_! Kind of. My parents. Find the root of my OCD and the other 20 mental illnesses yet?"

* * *

Doctors and other staff left Arkham all the time, so the process of hiring and splitting up work was the only thing the prison was really good at. All her patients got sorted to other doctors when she left for Rhode Island, but somehow Edward got lost in the shuffle. He usually did, especially as a child. Always there but always forgotten.

Always there but always forgotten,

Cunning, polite, 

But inside is rotten,

What am I?

He gets up from his bed, careful as always not to hit his precious head on the top bunk. Eddie zips up the top of his uniform, the dull orange that clashed with the dull off-white that matched the dull faces of the dull staff. A tired looking face looks back at Edward, bags under his dead eyes and collar bone poking out like a wire hanger. What a loser. Wimp. Freak. And so dull looking. That's what he has become. Dull dull dull dull dull dull dull dull dull dull dull...

"You're not pretty enough to stare at your reflection that long."

Long, spindly legs dangle over the edge of the top bunk, and Jonathan ungracefully jumps down. Edward hates looking at him: too tall, too skinny, boney fingers you can only imagine choking you, whispy hair thinning around the edges of his hairline. No wonder he chose the name Scarecrow. Sometimes he expects hay to fall out whenever he took off the unflattering orange jumpsuit. 

"I just had to look at the prettiest thing in this room after thinking about you." Edward is quick to reply, he had to be. If he wasn't it would be like admitting defeat. "Ugly people bring upon ugly thoughts. Pretty people--"

Scarecrow ignores the terrible, half-assed comeback, not even giving Edward a second glance. Jonathan steps up to the small mirror, pushing Eddie aside and fixing his hair that was sticking up in all directions.

A small part of the mirror wasn't being taken up by Scarecrow's long face, and Edward gazes at his reflection. The dead looking face. His eyes drifted to his nose, and the large scar across the bridge.

* * *

"Edward! Ed, get down here!"

Edward sets down the Rubiks cube (a Christmas gift from his aunt) on his desk, just a few squares away from getting it back to perfect. In the hallway he stops, looking at his reflection in the ugly mirror his mother thought looked so nice there and braced himself. His black eye had _just_ healed and he's starting to like his face again. As he hurries down the stairs a million scenarios run through his mind, all ending with bruises over his body.

The boy stands in the doorway to the front room awkwardly, rocking on his heels. On the side table: his report card, his first high school report card. In the next room he sees beer cans, empty and strewn about on the table and floor. Right in front of him, his father, 5' 11" and towering over Edward, report card now in hand and shoving it in his face.

"What the hell is this?"

"Um...it...that's my report card, sir. From school."

He takes a step back, setting the papers on the table. "Don't get smart with me, boy. I know what a fucking report card is. I just don't believe what's _on it._ "

Edward looks down at his father's pants; the belt buckle was undone. His heart beats faster in his chest and his hands began to shake. "What is on it? I haven't seen it yet..."

"There's a note on here that says you were the only one to get a 100 on your math final. What the fuck is that about?"

"I...I don't know what you mean..."

"Don't you fuck around with me!" He points a fat finger in Edward's face, effectively backing him up against the wall. "Listen, I'm going to ask this once, and you're gonna tell me the truth, understand? Did you cheat on your finals?"

Edward shakes his head frantically. His father takes a fist full of his son's hair and slams his head into the china cabinet next to him. The bowls and plates rattle, and Edward's mother's favorite serving dish shatters. Blood gushes from the bridge of Edward's nose, dripping down his chin and to the floor. He holds himself up with his shaking arms, afraid to fully stand up against his father. Tears mix in with the blood on his face. 

His father slides the belt from his pant loops and doubles it over itself. He raises it over his head and scowls down at his wimpy, loser son. "I'm going to ask you again. And this time, you're gonna tell the _truth_. Did you cheat in your tests?"

Edward shakes his head again, cowering against the wall. "No. I didn't, I-I swear."

The belt comes down over and over again, cracking against skinny arms and a boney back. With each crack comes a grunt and a scream from different mouths.

"Please! Dad, I didn't cheat!" Another crack.

"Dad!" _Crack_.

"I'm telling the truth!" _Crack_.

* * *

 A loud buzz resonates through the small room, breaking Edward out of his trance. The door opens with a small screech, in unison with the other cell doors. Rouges file out of their rooms, heading downstairs to the cafeteria. Edward follows suit, walking behind Killer Croc and trying his best to think about anything but the scar on his nose.

It's distracting, the constant jumble of noise coming from all directions. The Joker laughing at an embarrassing memory of Harley Quinn, and her nervous laughter to go along with it. Clayface telling some story about a raccoon getting in his trailer. Two-Face and Poison Ivy arguing about something from their past, something stupid, Edward is sure. It makes his hands twitch; stuck between wanting to cover his ears and strangling everyone so they would just shut up. Often he found himself asking to be allowed in his room before breakfast was over just to have some time to himself. His requests were never fulfilled.

Oatmeal again for breakfast, the off-brand kind with no brown sugar added in and a side of rude staff who wish they had finished college. The bowl is warm in his hands, a contrast to his constantly cold fingers. And it feels nice. As nice as someone can feel in an out-of-date prison with severely mentally ill inmates. He sit's down at an empty table in the corner, the closest thing to alone time he could get.

The oatmeal is watery, and Edward's mind drifts around the idea of oatmeal. Were there any oatmeal riddles? Probably not, it isn't a very interesting or clever thing. There were, however, plenty of riddles about water, but that couldn't work. Maybe a riddle didn't suit this oatmeal puzzle, more of a pun or something. An analogy. A comparison to some outrageous scenario and...yes. This oatmeal is like...having sex, no, like making love in a canoe: it's fucking close to water.

Edward snickers under his breath. He wasn't very fond of swearing to make something amusing, but it was the only way to make the joke work. It's rather clever, he thought, and if he wouldn't get punched he would share it with someone. So Edward stayed quiet, thinking of other riddles about the things around him. A table. A jumpsuit. A spoon. Spoons. On one side I show the real you, on the other it's flipped, you choke me until the bowl...no that's stupid...you choke me until you're full? You choke me until...until...until you're full, and I never get chipped. What am I?

That was horrible. Is this really the best he could do? What had become of his once brilliant mind that he can't even make a riddle about a simple spoon? Maybe it's just a bad day. The dreams were distracting him from thinking properly. That's it. His nightmares. Once they go away again he'll be better than ever. If he could just--

 Jonathan sat down across from Edward, hands clasped on the table in front of him. "You know, I can help you with your little prob--"

"I'm not helping you break out, nor am I going to be a lab rat for your 'experiments'," Edward cut him off quickly.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you it was rude to interrupt people?"

"She also taught me never to steal; clearly I didn't listen to her rules very well." Edward gets up from his seat, but is pulled back down by surprisingly strong boney fingers. 

"And I'm sure your father taught you a lesson every time you took your playmate's toys."

At the mention of his father, Edward's eyes go wide. He quickly covers it up as anger, but no doubt Jonathan saw that feeling he loved so much.

"What exactly do you want from me?" His leg is bouncing feverishly under the table. Oh, how he hated sitting still when he was uncomfortable.

"Nothing. As you know I used to be a psychiatrist--"

"--Until you made two of your patients commit suicide after a session--"

"Hush for 5 seconds if you're able! I used to be a psychiatrist, and those skills don't magically go down the drain when you have your license (and your freedom) taken away. You've been having nightmares lately. No doubt about your father giving you half of your scars and your mother not giving you enough hugs." Edward opens his mouth, but quickly shuts it after Jonathan shoots him a glare. "You have issues, _obviously_. I can help."

Edward laughs, ignoring the terrible feeling in his stomach. How can Jonathan possibly know he was having nightmares? He never said a word, not to anyone, least of all Jonathan. And there is no possible way he could know about his father. No one alive knew about that. Edward swore he wouldn't tell anyone; it made people pity him. The only thing worse than stupidity was unwanted pity.

"As if I need help. I'm perfectly fine. My mother gave me plenty of hugs and all my issues stem from my OCD." 

"And where does _that_ stem from?"

His hands fist in the fabric of his pants, sweat making his palms slick. He chews the inside of his cheek, reopening a wound from when Oswald punched him last week. Blood coats his tongue as he prods the cut, the coppery taste tingling on the tip. 

Jonathan gives a smug smile to Edward. He loves seeing him like this. Not as much as he loved making him afraid, but this, the awkward and terrible defense was a close second.

"What has wheels and flies but is not an aircraft?"

What a pathetic way to change the subject. "A garbage truck."

"Good. Another acceptable answer is Jonathan Crane."

Edward gives one last glare as he got up from his seat, ignoring the bubbling...something (anger? Fear? Both?) in his chest. A loud buzz shut everyone up as they piled their dishes by the kitchen and moved on to the next dull part of their day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know the riddle at the end doesn't make sense, but that's kinda the point. 
> 
> Also, writing riddles is hard


	2. Chapter 2

"Go to your room, Ed. And don't come out until you can admit what you've done."

Edward runs upstairs, as fast as he can. He goes into the bathroom instead, locking the door behind him. Tears flow steadily down his bloody and bruised face, sobs stick in his throat, few of them slipping through. With shaking hands he twists the cold knob on the sink. The water is cool on his skin and it feels nice in the June heat. Blood washes off his nose and swirls down the drain. His arms are braced against the sink, shaking and barely stable. Everything hurts, but everything is fine. This is just a bad day. He's had worse. Nothing is broken ( _maybe his nose_ ) and the welts from his father's belt will go away in a few days. All he has to do is stay clear from his father, then everything will blow over. It'll be fine soon. Edward wipes the tears away but more keep coming, spilling over the edge of his eyes and fall into the sink. His eyes feel heavy and dry.

Pronounced as one letter,

And written with three,

Two letters there are,

And only two in me,

Gray, brown, and blue,

They help me see you.

What am I?

The riddle doesn't help him feel better, but it usually doesn't. It's just a distraction, but it works; that's what matters.

A man quits his job, turns off the lights, and goes home. Two hundred people die. Why?

What asks but never answers?

I run but never walk, but you can always catch me. What am I?

Downstairs, his mother comes home, and already she's shouting about the broken china and blood on the floor. Edward presses an ear to the door and tries to make out what they're saying. They shout over each other, and something has fallen down, a chair maybe. Something ( _a fist? A chair? A spouse?_ ) is slammed into the wall. A picture falls off the wall and now it's his father's turn to shout. Edward creeps back down the stairs to listen.

"He gets it from _you_ , always lying and cheating. The little shit isn't smart enough to pass a simple test. He's fucking retarded and always locked up in his room, never going outside. None of the kids on the block talk to him, and their parents think we don't raise kids right!"

"Well _maybe_ if you weren't always drinking you could have a talk with him. I mean, damn it, Frank, he doesn't know how to socialize because you don't ever _talk_ to him unless you're gettimg the truth out of him! He needs--"

"Love, kindness, a strong male figure, blah blah blah, that's all bullshit. All he needs is one parent, _one_ , to take care of him. It should be you, Debra. A woman's role isn't to _work_ , it's to take care of her kids and husband.  And so far you're doing a pretty shitty job."

He holds his breath and Edward hears a loud smack; his mother probably slapped his father. He creeps down a few more steps, able to see just the back of his father's head. And his hands balled into fists.

"I do nothing but provide for this family, while you sit around on your ass all day and drink the second you come home! Eddie is good at something, he's smart. We have to encourage him so he can get out of this shit hole."

"He doesn't deserve anything better than this, Deb. He's a loser, and _won't_ get anything better. If you encourage him, he'll think he should be rewarded for cheating and lying."

* * *

 "That riddle you said at breakfast doesn't work."

Edward slammed the dryer door shut. "Excuse me?"

"The riddle about the garbage truck. Now, I'm not an idiot, Nygma, I know your _intention_ , but it doesn't work."

The shorter man turned around, laundry basket on his hip. His eyes narrowed and lips puckered. Was Jonathan really going to question the Prince of Puzzles about this?

"The riddle itself doesn't work; it's not describing _me_. Just the garbage truck. It was your lamest attempt at insulting me."

Edward's eyes widened in realization. How stupid was he to miss that? It was so obvious. His hands gripped the laundry basket even tighter, knuckles turning white. Oh, god. It was finally happening. One of his worst fears. Edward could practically feel the steel wall around his brilliant mind rusting away. No. It was just his emotions getting in the way. Still a terrible thing, but not as horrible as getting older. He just needs to keep everything pressed down.

"You're getting old, Riddler. Your precious mind is--"

"Don't you ever call me that again." His legs were shaking. He hasn't been called that since...

"Oh? Why don't you talk about that?"

" _No_. Just because _you_ get off knowing everyone's weaknesses, irrational fears, and what have you, does not mean that I, or anyone else in this building, get the same sick pleasure in having our weaknesses, fears, and what have yous exploited and used against ourselves."

"Tsk, Edward I am simply helping you on the path of...whatever bullshit they want us to become. Righteousness or inner peace. Dr. Walser isn't here to talk about your daddy issues anymore. Your options are limited, _Riddler_. Have a session with me before you have a breakdown."

* * *

Light hands knock on Edward's door, turning the knob before he could tell them to go away. Debra stands awkwardly in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. Stray hair hung around her face, out of the bun that was so tight in the morning when she left. She's still in her uniform, and it looks like it needs a wash. Edward doesn't look much like her, he only got her nose and habit to destract himself instead of facing the issue. Purple cresent moons are stamped under her eyes and please god, never let Edward become this. Edward wants to yell at her for being so stupid. She should get away from this shit hole of a town, away from her husband, and do good work to people who deserve it. If Edward believed he deserved such good things he would ask to leave with her.

"He slammed your head into my china cabinet?"

Edward nods and tries not to tell her he isn't interested in talking about anything. "I can fix it tomorrow."

"Eddie...I know this is hard for you, that everything is hard for you. Lord knows you would be a _much_ better child if you weren't your father's son. I hate how he hurts you sometimes." She cups Edward's face with one hand and brushes reddish-brown hair out of his eyes with the other.

"I'm fine, Mom, really." He smiles up to her and ignores the tightness in his chest. "But... I think that...it would be best if you..." When he looks into his mother's eyes and his breath hitches.

"What? Tell me, Eddie." She sounds like his father.

Edward takes in a shuddering breath. "I think it would be best if you and Dad..got divorced."

Her hand is fast as it hits Edward right on top of a bruise that was begining to bloom. The sound lingers and it helps him realize what just happened. It starts to tingle, then burn. Tears well up in his eyes.

"Don't you dare say that _ever_ again. I love your father and he loves me too. And you. You need to show some respect, Eddie. If we got divorced I'd be the laughing stock of the town." Debra sighs and softens her gaze. "I know you don't like his methods of parenting, but that's how he was raised. He's just trying to fix you, to get you to tell the truth. And days like today he's...just drunk. We both love you very much, Eddie. Remember that."

She hugs Edward tightly, rubbing his back in pseudo comfort. Tears slowly cascade down his cheeks. It hurt. It hurt that she wouldn't even listen to him. It hurt that she made excuses for his father hitting him and gave him the occasional smack. It hurt that he still clung to her, despite her toxicity. Everything hurt and nothing was fine. He wants to die right then but he can't; that'd be rude. So he makes plans to stay alive and live in misery.

"I didnt cheat on that test," he whispers into her hair.

She hums back, "I know, Eddie. I know."

* * *

 "Do you know why I called you in here, Edward?"

Framed diplomas hang on the wall under a thin, black frame, reflecting a glare from the fluorescent lights. The room is a cluttered mess, it makes Edward's hands twitch. Hard candy wrappers and loose papers in between pictures of his family, on a fishing trip, in Yellowstone, New York, Disneyland. A small name plate reads: **_Mr. Horton_**. His glasses are slipping off his face to the tip of his nose and Edward would give anything to reach over that incredibly messy desk and _push them up._ But he stays seated.

"No, sir." That was a lie and oh, god, his chest hurts because of it.

"It's...two things, really. The first is Charlie. From what your teachers tell me, you two were very close. Losing a friend can be very painful and can lead to depression, which can lead to suicide. Like what, uh..." He coughs awkwardly in his hand.

Edward just sits on his hands, trying not to react. He's trembling but Mr. Horton doesn't notice. The counselor is shuffling through papers, muttering to himself. He finally pulls out the right paper.

"The other thing is that throughout high school," he turns over the paper on his desk, "middle school, even, you have had a lot of injuries. Broken noses, black eyes, broken ribs. Several reports of kids saying that you...had welts on your arms and torso and...bruises everywhere. Those were from the, uh, from boys in your gym period. They saw the injuries while you were...well that's not important."

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, avoiding eye contact. Why couldn't this period just be over? His stomach growled; he hadn't eaten anything since lunch yesterday and oh, god if he didn't eat anything today he's sure he'll pass out before math.

"Is someone here bullying you? Beating you up?"

"No, sir." Only part lie.

"Is your father...does he ever...has your father ever hit you?"

"When I was little he would spank me." Lie. That was his mother.

"I mean now. Does he hit you _now_ , Edward." He doesn't look too concerned. After all, many parents have a strong hand when their children misbehave. Edward wondered if he ever slapped his children.

Mr. Horton stares Edward down, like that will get the answer out sooner, and it will. He's shaking like a goddamn leaf and, oh, that pain in his chest is getting worse. He can't lie, he can't lie, he can't lie, he can't lie, he can't lie, he can't lie, he can't lie, he can't lie, he can't lie, he can't--

"Edward? Is something wrong? I just need a yes or no answer."

"It's because I'm stupid!" He blurts out, blushing a little when he realizes what he just said. "I'm clumsy and stupid. I trip a lot and...we have a lot of stairs at home." Technically not lies. "Ask Mrs. Chavez, I can barely kick a ball without falling over." He gives the counselor a nervous laugh.

"Well...if you ever have family issues," Mr. Horton says, digging through a drawer in his desk, "You can get help using this pamphlet."

Edward turns it over in his hands, looking over the cartoon drawings skeptically. This thing had to be from the 60's, if not earlier. He shoved it in his backpack, making a note to never call the probably out-of-date number. It might be a sex hotline or an newly wed couple's new landline now. 

He slung his backpack over his shoulder and rushed out the door.

"Have a nice day, Edward!"

* * *

 He could feel Jonathan's eyes on the back of his head. It maked him twitch. Why couldn't he just let it go? It's not like he needed any help figuring his shit out. He never had help before and everything has been fine so far. He hasn't gotten psychotic yet, and his paranoia is down to a minimum (at least, until Jonathan started pestering him). Everything was fine. Well, it would be if Jonathan would stop staring at him.

The terrible feeling in his chest is starting to be too much. Asa distraction, Edward starts mumbling riddles to himself.

"I build up castles and tear down mountains. I make some men blind, I help others to see. What am I?"

"Two legs I have, and this will confound: only at rest do they touch the ground. What am I?"

"I am a box that holds keys without locks, yet--"

"You insist you're not crazy, yet here you are, talking to yourself."

The voice makes Edward jump and he hates himself for it. Jonathan was hardly scary to a man like Edward, and only creepy to children who are warned about white vans near playgrounds. Underneath that calm face he's probably proud of himself for startling a man who can hide his emotions nearly as well as himself.

"Talking to oneself is an emotionally healthy behavior." He pauses, looking Jonathan up and down. "Which might be why you're in a nut house."

"Again, Edward, your once intelligent mind is slipping. You forget you're _also_ in 'a nut house'."

He frowns and leans in close to Scarecrow's face, standing on his toes to do so. He fists his hands in Jonathan's collar to bring him down a tad; Edward was too short for intimidation. His breath smells like mint toothpaste and Tic-Tacs, a nice surprise; he expected it to smell like rotting corpses. His own breath his heavy and hot with anger and why is Jonathan looking at him like he's a child. 

"Let me remind you why we are both in this shit hole. _You_ are here because you like to show people their worst fears and, occasionally, murder them. _I_ am here because I cannot tell a lie, have severe OCD, and can't refrian from leaving riddles for the Batman, or the police, to find. You are here to be _contained_ , I am here to _get better._ So yes, I am currently in a nut house, but at least I have a chance of being declared legally sane and living the rest of my life in moderate misery like everybody else. You will stay here and rot until one day they find you hanging from your bed sheet and file a report that no one will read."

"So hostile, Edward. Can't keep your emotions in check any more?" Scarecrow smiles cruelly as Edward backs away. 

"I'm just reminding you of facts." He swallows the lump in his throat and clenches his fists. "And besides, hiding one's emotions is a bad habit and isn't very emotionally healthy."

"Hm. I'll try to remember that. While we're giving advice, here's a tip: pretending like you're getting better doesn't mean you actually are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I've been very distracted with school starting up again soon.
> 
> Next chapter will be up on the 17th at the latest


	3. Chapter 3

Deep in his bones, Edward knows this is a terrible idea. But he doesn't care. He can feel his mind slipping, and won't this help at least a bit? The chances are slim, but long odds are Ed's favorite. Certainty is for the stupid and boring.

"I'm only doing this because Dr. Walser is gone. As soon as I get a new,  _legitimate_ therapist, I will never talk to you about my life ever again."

Jonathan closes his book and smiles. It looks so unnatural, like someone is pulling his skin from behind.

"Let's get started then."

He has Edward lie down on his back, just like in those cartoons and movies. Of course in real therapy, you _sat_ on a couch when you talked about your daddy issues. The little detail nags at him, but he stays still. Any fidgeting could tell Jonathan a lot more than words. And Edward wanted to say as little as he needs to.

"What was your childhood like?" Jonathan clicks his pen, ready to take notes.

He closes his eyes. "Terrible."

"You'll need to elaborate, Edward."

He takes a deep breath. "My father beat me whenever I lied to him or when he was drunk. My mother hit me if I said anything bad about her or my father and constantly reminded me that I was a failure, but somehow she still made me love her."

He shouldn't be telling Jonathan any of this. It could all be used against him, and most likely will. Crane isn't a man anyone should trust, especially with personal memories and thoughts. But Edward has a feeling the other man knew some of the details already.

"And what about your peers, other students in school?"

I wasn't very popular in school. Nobody really liked me except for..."

"Except for...?"

* * *

 He doesn't look up from the ovoid hunk of clay, painting an arbitrary shape purple and labeling it ' ** _CEREBRAL CORTEX_** '. The model is almost complete. There isn't any reason for him to be there.

"You don't have to keep coming over. I can do the project myself," he reminds his partner.

The boy rocks on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. "I know. But I'd feel bad if you did all the work. Let me do the other half...if you haven't already finished it."

Edward opens a drawer and pulls out the left side of a brain model, carefully placing it on the desk. Color coded, labeled, and even glossed over with a special glue mixture; it was finished. Before his partner can open his mouth again, he pulls out a pink, tapered stick with the words ' ** _BRAIN STEM_** ' written neatly on it. That was glossed as well.

He struggles to find something to say. "I could at least present it. If we're turning this in with both our names on it, I'm going to do some of the work." His hands are on his hips, trying his hardest to look stern. It doesn't really work.

Edward sighs and puts down the right brain, finally looking at Charlie. "Alright, fine. But _I'm_ writting the notecards and we split the lines."

"Fair enough." He smiles brightly. "I think we'll do better than Emily and Za--" Charlie is cut off when Edward's door slams open.

Edward's father stands in the doorway, looking cross and drunk. "Who said you could have friends over?"

From across the room, they can smell the whiskey mixed cigar smoke. Edward scrambles to get up from his chair, knocking it over in the process. He shouldn't be home yet. Work didn't end until 6. He didn't start drinking until at least 7. Well, usually. Even in all of his fear, Edward can't help but wonder if he lost his job.

"Dad, I--"

"I don't wanna here your excuses. You know the rules: nobody comes over unless I know them or if their parents call."

"Mom said it was okay... A-and we're working on something for school so--"

"Mom said? No, when you want a friend over, you come to _me_ , you hear? Don't listen to what your mother said is okay."

Edward nodds vigorously and stutters out, "Y-Yes, sir."

Frank turns to Charlie, narrowing his eyes. "Who are your parents?"

"Uh... Suzan and Robert Black, sir. We own the, uh, funeral home and crematory a few blocks from here."

"Have your father call next time. If he's not too busy _fucking corpses,_ " he sneers before slamming the door shut.

Edward glances at his alarm clock, shaking his head. "It's not even 4 yet..."

Charlie bites his lip. "Is that why you didn't want me to help you with the brain? Because of your dad?" He puts a hand on Edward's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

The touch of kindness is all it takes for him to collapse inside.

* * *

 "So after that you became friends?" Jonathan asks, looking up from his notes.

"I suppose. We had a lot of classes together and I tutored him for a lot of those subjects. We sort of...grew on each other." Edward opens his eyes and stares at the slates supporting the mattress above him. "Things sort of...escalated the next year."

There's a look in the Scarecrow's eyes that makes Edward's stomach clench. "You fell in love. Didn't think you were capable of such a thing so..." He pauses, searching his mind for the right word, "horrible."

"He was the only one. Not that anyone else would have been interested."

"Hm. How did your other classmates treat you? What did they think about Charles?"

" _Charlie_."

"Whatever."

* * *

 

"Hey, Nashton."

Edward squeezes his eyes shut and closes his locker. "I'm really not in the mood today, Jacob. Go harass someone else."

He turns away from the jock, hanging his head low. Jacob grabs his wrist and turns him around to face him. He's alone and doesn't have that cruel smile on his face that looks so much like his father's. The students around them hurry past, not interested in being a part of a fight.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry. A-about your mom. She was a nice lady, ya know? My mom knew her and I kinda did too. I know how it feels to loose a parent and..." He rubs the back of his neck, "if you need to talk about it or whatever..." He hands Edward a scrap of paper with his phone number on it.

He takes the paper, staring at it like a crude drawing he saw on some of the desks, narrowing his eyes. Never had Edward thought he would be getting a legitimate phone number from a kid as popular as Jacob. Especially under these circumstances. 

"Thanks but...you really _don't_. You have _no_ idea how I feel." He shoves the paper into a pocket. "Your dad died in a car crash because the roads were icy. My mom was killed. _Murdered_." His legs are shaking under him and tears are welling in his eyes. "You know who to blame when his birthday passes or when you think about how he used to go to every one of your little league games. It's just whoever didn't salt the roads that morning." He wipes his cheeks but the tears keep flowing down. "I have no idea who killed my mom and the police say there wasn't much evidence and," he holds in his sobs, a few mixing in his words, "and the lead detective says they might never find her killer. And...I'm expected to just deal with it for the rest of my life."

The warning bell dings in the nearly empty hallway and Jacob awkwardly walks to his next class. Edward is left alone in the hallway, leaning against his locker and sobbing quietly in his hands. It's been a week since he was pulled out of class and told they found his mother's bloody corpse in an alley. The policemen sympathized with him for a while before telling him they'd do the best they could. Just yesterday they called and said their was hardly any evidence, and that they were very sorry.

He cries in the hallway for a while, knees drawn up to his cheeks, until a teacher finds him. They all know who he is, and more importantly, what has happened. The whole school does. Everyone talked about poor Edward Nashton, his mother died and now all he has is an alcholic father and one friend. He wishes everything was back to normal. He wishes that Jacob and his friends would harass and beat him after school. That Emily and Zach would tease him one minute and ask for homework answers the next. That Charlie would still call him every day after he got done with his homework and chores. Of course, the chores he did were less of dusting and cleaning the windows and more of cremating bodies and showing different urns to a deceased person's family.

When he finally calms down, he goes into the bathroom, splashing cold water from the sink on his face. The mirrors in there are dirty, dust and sharpie clinging to the surface. His eyes are red and purple bags hang under them. He hasn't been sleeping well. Auburn hair hangs in front of his eyes. His shirt collar is rumpled and a yellowing bruise is peeking out from his sleeve. Under the dirt and dust and crude messages written in sharpie he sees what a mess he is. Edward can hear his father's voice in his head.

_You don't deserve anything better than this. You're a loser. Worthless. Pathetic._

"You weren't in the cafeteria."

"I'm not hungry."

Charlie wraps his arms around his boyfriend's chest from behind. He plants small kisses on his shoulder and it makes Edward feel a little better. 

"I don't want to be here."

"I know."

Edward looks up and stares at his reflection again. "My mom used to always tell me that I would be broken as long as I'm a Nashton. And...I can't just _stop_ being a Nashton. I even look like one. I look like shit."

"You want to know what my mom used to tell me?" He whispers in his ear. "Mirrors don't tell us who we are. They tell us what we look like. And even if you _do_ look like a Nashton," Charlie turns the other around to face him, "that doesnt mean you have to be like one."

He kisses Edward's forehead just as Jacob comes into the bathroom.

"You two are _fags_?" Jacob whispers, almost to himself, revulsion distorting his features.

Edward's heart beat quickens inside his ribs, fear making his legs turn to jelly. He can't breathe and Charlie is shaking in front of him, terrified as he should be. Just a few weeks ago five men were murdered for 'public indecency' in Gotham, and the police wrote it off as an accident. They were last seen at a gay bar.

"J-Jacob, it's not...we're not--" he stumbled over his words.

"I knew there was something fucked up about you, Nashton," Jacob spat, rushing out of the bathroom to spread the horrible news.

* * *

 

It hurt Edward's chest to think about that distant memory. Phantom bruises and cuts from the day after resurfaced. Mostly on his face. They loved hitting his face.

Jonathan finishes up his notes, scribbling furiously. "Did the police ever find your mother's killer?"

"No."

The thin man squinted at Edward over the top of his glasses. "Did _you_?"

Edward pauses, thinking about the consequences of telling the truth. "Yes. It was..." He purses his lips together, not wanting to spill the words. It was too horrible to say out loud. Nobody alive knew who it was, save for him. He swore he would take this secret to his grave.

"Well? We haven't got all day. The lights will go out in a few minutes."

"My father."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry this took so long. I've been feeling pretty unmotivated to do anything and this took a while to crank out. The next chapter will be up in about a week, maybe longer.


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